Silent Ribcages
by Zelz Saihitei
Summary: A trilogy of short ficlets documenting a shortlived romance. Includes Sea of Doubt, Parade, and the last installment, Parallel. [femmeslash]
1. sea of doubt

Another one shot; just my verbal doodling. It's very similar to my last one shot, "Like Parchment," but... different? I dunno. Either way, I hope you like it. L&C chapter seven coming soon.

J. K. Rowling pwns their asses.

Sea of Doubt

She watches you in between sheets of paper and dyes the white red with her blush, admiring the flirtatious curve of your mouth as you talk to another boy, the careful way you toss your hair with the back of your hand to accentuate your slender neck. She can see the pulse in your throat when you laugh and she traces your collarbone with her eyes, wishing she could run her fingertips across the fragile white, feel the hard beneath the soft.

She wishes for a lot of things, though she presents herself to be so down-to-earth. She talks to you and she's praying, _oh, god, talk to me like you talk to them_, referring to the boys you pay attention to – so much attention to, not enough to her. She's your study companion, your brother's love interest – not that she has any interest in him, and you know it, but since that night that she kissed your cheek so soft and you felt her breath so tantalizingly against your mouth, you haven't spoken of love or interest. It was an unspoken mistake; just a moment taken the wrong way. She hates that you do that – ignore the important incidents that really define your relationship with her, the ones that could ignite something so powerful that neither of you could ever imagine the flames in each other's eyes.

She invites you to her much more private prefects dorm, just a couple of girls in one room and most of them are usually out, but most of the time you just smile sheepishly and decline. Instead, you invite her to your dorm, where there are always huddles of girls giggling and gossiping, so privacy is out of the question. Privacy for what, you don't want to think about – oh, but she does, and you know that.

The fact of the matter is that you do think about it when you're alone – what it would be like. Summer isn't too far off and you'll be sleeping next to her every night, the sticky summer air keeping the state of dress at indecent levels and spelling the doors locked and silenced so the boys don't try to sneak in on your mostly-naked forms. You cuddle together over the summer; you look forward to it, the comfort of her skin against yours, the sound of her breath close to your ear. You secretly enjoy when she wakes up early and assumes you're still asleep and simply watches you. You flutter your eyelids open only slightly to catch the expression on her face – longing, but content. You know it, because you look at her the same way when she's not looking.

But you're scared of secret flirtations not being so secret anymore. After all, you're a popular girl – so many obligations to uphold, so many boys' hearts to break. You enjoy the game and the company, but not the messy parts – the groping of hard, clumsy hands, the smacking of untrained lips. You think that, even though she's never kissed anyone, she would be perfect.

And that's why you're scared. She's perfect – too good for you. She doesn't think so; she doesn't think she's pretty enough for you, which is why she doesn't try to win your attention. She plays much subtler games than you do, which is why you generally don't catch them – the invitations to walk by the lake, or trips to the kitchen for hot cocoa – you just assume she's just being polite, even though you know better in your heart. But why take the chance?

She invites you again to spend time with her in the prefects dorm; she tells you it's empty – everyone's still at dinner. You say yes, heart pounding. She blushes and leads you inside, swallowing the sea of doubt she's watered in her heart and once the door is closed she turns to you with soft eyes.

You expect the kiss but not the softness, not the heat. It's so chaste; unlike boys, she doesn't go right for the kill, tongue manic and sloppy. No, she's perfect, it's perfect, the moment is perfect: your hands clasp her hips and her hands go around your shoulders and no one can tell you to stop.

You don't, not for a long time. Your bodies move for the bed of their own accord and you're laying on top of her, petting her hair and running your hands over her body over her clothes, afraid of how far to go, unsure of what to do – but it feels right just to admire her curves. She's really very gorgeous, you've always thought so. She hides it all in slightly oversized sweaters, the sleeves hanging over her hands. You think it's endearing how she hides herself. She thinks it's for the best that she does.

She's praying to an unnamed god as you're kissing her and touching her that this is real and not another fantasy she's created; she's wanted to feel you on top of her for so long she isn't sure what to do, but it's everything she ever dreamed of. She's the one to start pulling off your shirt, tugging at the buttons and looking at you with eyes so wide and fiery that you can't help but comply, helping her. After all, you want it just as bad as she does.

One by one, your clothing comes off and she's bewitching the door so people will remember they forget something elsewhere and not bother the two of you. You grin shyly and she returns it, face aflame with blood beneath her cheeks, growing redder as run your hands seductively down her taut stomach, to the heat between her legs.

She clutches at you, digs into your skin with her chipped nails. You can feel the broken skin on your back. And when she comes, her teeth clamp down on your neck, biting hard, making you moan unexpectedly, the pain shooting liquid heat between your legs. There will be a mark, you think fuzzily, before you feel your positions flipped and her fingers slipping inside you.

She holds you, watches your eyes. You kiss her fiercely, biting on her lip. Your entire body is on fire; you hear whimpers in the back of your throat and wonder what kind of temptress could make you feel like this. And when you come, it's like being underwater, hearing nothing but breaking waves above you and feeling the current brush against your skin, making it tingle pleasantly from the back of your skull to the tips of your toenails.

Neither of you talk and you're not sure why. You hold each other and doze off for a while. No one wakes you, no one even comes upstairs. She falls asleep, still wrapped up in your embrace. You wonder if you could do this all the time. You wonder if you have the courage to.

Your eyes close and imagine the possibilities – the consequences. You wonder, hypothetically, if one girl is worth the loss of your family, your friends, your social status. You wonder if one girl is worth lying for, worth dying for, worth spending god knows how long in secret. Switching pronouns; evading questions; true rumors.

You've already been through this. Your first and second year; even now, people still whisper about you and the Chamber of Secrets. It hurts you. Would you let a girl hurt you? Would you let them hurt her like that?

That's your reasoning for your clothed state when her eyes flutter open. She looks at you with a hurt expression already forming, turning her eyes dark and wide, and pulls the sheets closer around her still nude form.

It's the reasoning why you sigh and avoid her gaze when you tell her, "I can't do this. I'm sorry." No explanations and you don't give her a chance to question. You simply stand calmly and walk out, hearing nothing as you do – and knowing that it's her heart breaking swiftly in her ribcage.

But you realize your mistake as soon as you return to your own bed, heart burning so painfully you can scarcely breathe. You spend the evening curled in a ball in the middle of the sheets, staring with blind eyes at the bloody mess you've made – a new Oedipus, distraught and hiding. You expect the worst the next day – a bawling Hermione, unable to come to breakfast, lunch, dinner, wasting away, but she approaches you so calmly and sits next to you so easily that you almost wish she were upset. And then you notice the mechanical movements of her hands, the way she nods on auto-pilot to the conversations around her – and you understand the nature of a broken heart.

She still wishes; but she no longer watches you over her books. You haven't seen her eyes in months. But you watch her, hoping that one day she'll look back again.


	2. parade: part i

Parade: schemes of pleated skirts under the sun

You hate the way she looks at you now – so regretful, yet so unwilling. You endured that look when her brother approached you a week before the end of the year, wondering obliviously when you would visit over the summer. She looked at you with fearful, hurt, haunted eyes, as if this had been your fault, and she was the victim.

Maybe it was your fault.

You told yourself after what had happened that that's the price you pay for exposing your heart to someone. In reality, you hadn't really told her anything verbally – just with your body. Just with the way you refused to look at her afterwards, when she rejected you. God, what a mess it all had been.

Even so, you find yourself smiling at her brother but meeting her eyes, deadened heartbeat puckering up at the thoughts bubbling in your head. "I'll be coming. I'll owl you in advance."

You find yourself justifying it: you're doing this for Ron, to keep him in line. You're doing this for Harry, to make sure he studies. You're doing this for Mrs. Weasley, who would take it as a personal offense against her and her family if you declined the offer. You're not doing this for Ginny, no.

You're so tired of being alone.

You go home on the train, riding with Harry and Ron. They devour candy after candy and talk about sports and their loathing of Snape. You can't help but wonder if that's all their friendship is based on: just some stupid train ride full of chocolate frogs. But you can't hold it against them. After all, they're not Ginny. And it's not their faults you got hurt.

You justify it: you're depressed, making you irritable. Your best friends have always been more concerned about sports and candy than they have been about you, but that's only because you've always made yourself out to be stronger than you really are. You don't want them to save you.

You don't need to be saved, you tell yourself. You don't need to be taken care of.

You dream about her at night. The way it felt to have your fingers inside of her body, feeling her muscles contract around you; tight, like a bear hug. You've never been able to make yourself come the way she made you come. You've never felt safer (but you don't need to be saved) than when she held you afterwards.

You find yourself in her living room, disheveled and smudged, wondering why you've come and what you expect to find here. Her? She doesn't want you. You think. You think far too much than is necessary.

But you hug her brother, and he lifts you up and spins you around, swirling everything into a mock-rainbow, something happy and bright. It's so unlike you. You hug her old hero, and he whispers a joke about the dirt on your nose. You laugh, but don't wipe it off. You hug her mother and feel her squeeze you tight, just like a mother should. You shake hands with her father. Everything's the way it should be.

Except with her. You don't know what to do with her. You reach her and you feel awkward. The residue of use on your skin has yet to wash off, no matter how many hours you've spent under the hot shower, trying to clean yourself. Her clothed form still offends you. She shuffles her feet and offers a half-smile hello. It's so unlike her.

You bob your head and let yourself be immersed in the energy around you, the fun complications of moving your suitcase and trunk up the steps, Crookshanks getting in everyone's way. You're laughing, and she's laughing, but not together. You're friendly but not friends.

You love her, but she doesn't love you back.

You realize this lying in bed next to her at night, after feeling undeniably uncomfortable and yet so bloody safe (but you don't need to be saved) so close to her. She's lying on her stomach, limbs curled haphazardly in such a tight space to allow you room, in skimpy red panties and a black bedtime tank top. You find yourself tracing her curves again, with your eyes, not daring to with your hands: her back, the way it curves so gently at the base and then swells again into her bum, so nicely created and maintained. Down her legs, hardened muscle. Smooth skin. You know.

You miss her, even though she was never really yours. That thought hurts the most, chokes you. She was never really yours.

You spend the next hour trying to keep the tears down, knowing she'll hear and try to comfort you. You want it and don't want it at the same time. It will only complicate things.

And yet there's still that stupid part inside of you that wants her _so badly_. Your mind clings to that, covered in the flimsy saran wrap of your list of justifications.

You choose to wear a pleated skirt, short, mid-thigh, lilac and grey; and an overwhelmingly tight expose-the-goods tank top your mother bought you before you came: white. After all, you have nothing to hide from your friends. And she's already seen it.

Maybe she just needs to see it again.

You justify it (saran wrap clinging): you just _need to know_. (And it's ridiculously warm out today.)

If she wants you. If she needs you.

The way you do her.

You eat breakfast and smile at the camera and laugh at Harry's jokes. You agree to be score keeper for the Quidditch game and ask her if she'll play, eyes caught. She was staring at your breasts. She nods her head.

Outside it's bright and warm. It's just like her. You sit on the grass, letting the strands tickle the exposed skin of your legs, letting their length and bareness be distracting. Ginny flickers her eyes to you. Your heart soars.

Harry kisses her after the match. Balloons burst: your lungs, your heart. Again.

You didn't even know they were together.

No one ever mentioned it to you.

You find yourself stuck in a parade, paralyzed but being forced to move by instinct and the constant push of bodies all around you.

You make excuses: the sun exhausted you, you say. You didn't sleep well the night before. You don't feel well. You think it smells delicious but you feel like you're going to vomit.

You don't look at her.

You don't look at him.

No one follows you up the stairs.


	3. parade: part ii

Parade: her bed of dreams, lies, and aspirations

Harry. Ginny. Ginny and Harry.

Harry and Ginny.

No one ever told you.

You say fuck platonic ties, you deserved to know.

You say fuck potential emotional breakdowns, you should have been told.

Your thoughts are disjointed and unfamiliar. You don't think you've ever been this angry. Not even when Ginny left you alone on the bed, naked, no explanation. No room for questioning. This is the lowest. This is so unlike her _and_ him.

Had she told him of their – affair? Had she told him how they had fucked, made love, had sex, whatever it was called? Sexual intercourse. Lesbians can't _have_ "intercourse."

Technically, you're still a virgin.

You say technicalities are for people who don't want to admit their own emotional downfalls.

Technically, you're not supposed to be upset.

But you are.

Oh god, how it hurts to have been paraded by these people who you showed loyalty to only to have been shown the steps you've been taught are nothing but a mirage of the people they are.

You hear someone bumbling around in the room next door. The mumbling, the cursing: it's Ron. Of course Ron would have known. Of course Ron would open up to you like a flower, eager to have sunlight. He "loves" you. He is "interested" in having your flower.

Ginny already took it.

You crawl out of bed like a madwoman and sneak like a spy into the other room. Your hair is tangled and your skirt is twisted the wrong way around. He spins around like a clumsy top at your presence and blinks stupidly.

No, it's all wrong, you cry, you spit, you sob into your hands and fall like a forgotten top. He's there to catch you like the net at the circus you saw as a child.

"He only asked her out last week," he tells you in a whisper. "I don't even know if she likes him like that. I don't even know if he really likes her like that."

Comfort, a little. You're still hurt. Kissing in front of you like fools under the big top.

You disillusion him. You have to. You can tell he wants to kiss you like a fool.

"I know," he says, sighing. "I know it's always gonna be her."

You crawl out of his arms like a burnt out star and glide back into her room. She's waiting for you, sitting calmly on her bed of dreams, lies, and aspirations.

You dream of her lying next to you, aspiring to make you hers.

You just start crying again; so much for comfort, platonic friendships, and not needing to be saved. You always crumble under too much pressure; it's just that no one ever sees.

She kisses you. Suddenly, like fireflies in the brush at night, just flickers of bright neon flashes. You want to catch them, make them yours, but they'll only die if you trap them.

But you take them anyway. You let her ask you what's wrong and you tell her that you need her.

You tell that you love her, with your eyes wide open and blurred.

And she tells you that she knows; her eyes flicker away for a moment, uncertain, hesitating. You wait with baited breath and sobs at the ready to explode like firecrackers.

"I love you, Hermione."

You're both kissing each other and you're removing her clothes. She's pulling your skirt down and your shirt up and she's taking you to the bed.

She's licking down your body and her tongue on you is making you explode like tiny fireflies in the back of your skull. There's something like a lightning storm in your lower abdomen, electrocuting your soul.

And you return the favor, her legs wrapped around your head, your hands gripping her hips so tightly you're sure there will be marks. She tastes of sweet dreams and summers under the sun and askance for forgiveness. And you give her forgiveness in the form of five orgasms in a row.

You like the way she screams your name like a prayer.

You curl up together on her bed of dreams and watch the parade calm down to just your two heartbeats moving together to one. Not yours. Not hers. Ours.

And when you wake up in the morning, she's still there.

And when she wakes up in the morning, she tells you she loves you.

You justify it: some things are just meant to be.


	4. parallel

Miss me?

Parallel

Fantasies don't last very long. A few hours, at most, while we each dream of what we want to have but don't. The euphoria they create is real, but superficial; underneath it all, there is still that constant throb of pain, the constant beat of a fragile, frantic heart.

I didn't mean to break her heart. You absolutely have to understand that. I didn't want this to happen to her, to me.

To us.

There wasn't really an 'us'. Kisses in private, sex at midnight, hands on thighs beneath the cover of the table cloth. That's what we had. That's what we were.

We were a secret I wasn't willing to reveal, and she wanted so desperately to be announced.

I continued kissing Harry, holding his hand, though there was nothing there but an appearance to uphold. Mum loved that he was mine. My brothers threatened good-naturedly that he would die before he would hurt me. Harry laughed with them, albeit nervously.

Ron never did. Ron coughed uncomfortably whenever Harry and I were together, looking towards Hermione searchingly – for an answer, for a sign. And every time he did, the guilt stabbed me. But I never let go of Harry's hand.

Guilt mixed with doubt is a funny thing. It can cause immeasurable pain without action attached. There is plenty of cause but little effect. We were both parallel, but not together. Our secret created tears in our lives that I could never fix, and didn't have the will to.

It's not that I enjoyed hurting her. I just didn't know what else to do. Expectations cause people to do strange things, to continue a path of existence that they don't necessarily want, but because other people see them in that direction they expect them to continue. I'm the poster child of heterosexual relations. Harry is, presumably, The One – and not just to save the world.

But then what was she? What did she mean to me?

We never really talked about our predicament. Just continued making love in the dead of the night, when no one could hear us or come barging in.

I still hate the thought of being caught. I hate the thought of being discovered with her, naked and happy. Because the truth is, I'm happiest when I'm with her. I always have been. I just don't have the strength to tell her so; it would mean too much to her. The sentimentality would exponentially increase the guilt creaking around in my bones.

"Don't tell anyone," I whispered fiercely outside. "Promise me, you won't tell anyone at school."

She looked at me with hurt, incredulous eyes. "But – school's not for another month – what are you -"

"Just don't," I cut in. "Promise."

I saw the light flicker out in her eyes, watched her body droop like a wilting flower. I hate myself for this, but – it's all about survival, right? Parallel lines never cross.

"I promise," she said, staring at her hands. "No one will ever find out from me."

I kissed her hard and left her in the grass. Harry was waiting for me; we made out on a chair in the living room and got catcalled by my brothers.

But it always… it always came back to her. Night would come and we'd discard our clothing and move across each other like water over rocks, touching, biting, licking, understanding what it's like to be loved in ways no one could ever imagine. We cried when the overwhelming euphoria would take control of our emotions, comforted each other, laughed at how ridiculous it was – crying when we were happy, the happiest. But it always ended when the morning came. When I'd slip back into my shroud of infidelity and she would disappear like dandelion seeds in the wind.

School came like relief and a hard knot in my stomach. Now it would be easier to sneak around, but at what price? I started avoiding her outright. I stopped visiting her Head Girl dorm, though she gave me the password under the pretense that I was allowed whenever I wanted.

I was walking to class when I saw her and Ron speaking quietly together, Hermione leaning against the wall and Ron close to her ear. Jealousy flared first, then curiosity.

"I'm going to," I heard him say stubbornly. He squeezed a hand over his fist and started walking away.

"Ron, don't," she pleaded. Her eyes caught on me. I'm not sure who looked away first; she was gone when my eyes returned.

The common room was lit with bright voices whispering and excited, scandalous laughter. Hermione nor Harry where anywhere to be found; I shrugged off a few misplaced strange looks and sank like a ship into an arm chair by the fire, searching through my bag lazily.

"Really? Her and Hermione -?"

I glanced towards the direction of the voice, heart pounding double time. Is Hermione seeing someone else, or…?

"I wonder how Harry's going to take this…"

"I guess we'll find out, right?"

More laughter. Fists gripped my insides, bending my body over in shame. All the time, I thought, _how could she do this? How could she do this?_

I hastily packed up my things again while the hyperventilation started, clogging my lungs with sharp bursts of air. Their conversations just became louder in my head, mocking me, questioning me, if not directly. I saw them watching me as I began walking quickly out of the common room, determined to go anywhere but here.

But there he was. Like a dark angel, there he was. Green eyes, lighter than hers, misted over and hardened by misery.

I did this to him.

"Harry," I began pleadingly, but he cut me off.

"I can't talk to you right now," he said, and, watching the carpet, retreated into the depths of the boys' dormitory.

I gritted my teeth against the tears swelling behind my eyelids and despite all their eyes on me, I sprinted through them and ran to the only place I knew how to.

"Jellyfish eyes," I gasped out when I got to her door, hoping to find it occupied. I needed to know why she would do this to me. No matter what I did to her, she wasn't a bad person. She wouldn't do something like this.

The door swung open and there she was. Like a quiet angel of mercy, there she was. Green eyes, dark, clouded over and soft with sadness.

She looked up when she saw me in her doorway and nodded slightly to accept my entry, but she didn't say anything, nor did she move. I swallowed a sea of doubt down my throat and shut the door behind me.

"Why?" I blurted loudly. She looked at me incredulously. "Why did you tell people? I asked you not to. You promised me you wouldn't tell anyone."

"I didn't." Her quiet voice interrupts my madwoman rant. I stare at her unbelievingly. "Ron asked me about it one day. I told him. It's not my fault he told others."

I hate how matter-of-fact she is sometimes.

"Harry broke up with me," I mumble, slumping down on her bed. "He couldn't… He couldn't even look me in the eyes." She stays silent. "This was… my fault from the beginning. I never really wanted him, you know." _Please, say something._ "I've always wanted you. I was just scared. I _am_ scared," I corrected. I looked over to her, her soft features, the sadness in her eyes – this was my fault, and I had to correct it. "Please, Hermione," I whispered, and kissed her.

Her hesitation turned into compliance quickly; her hands cupped my face, played with my hair, and my body melted into her. This was what I wanted, right? It was what she wanted, what she was telling me with her body and mouth: to keep going. Not just with this kiss, but with whatever we were. Whatever we wanted us to be.

I gently nudged her, supporting her as she laid down, me on top of her. I let my hands roam across her soft body and relished in the muffled moans from her mouth. I wanted this always, because this was the best I had ever had. She finally saw it. She finally understood.

I thought. I really believed. Damn her mind, her overactive cognitive processes. Our kiss was broken and we stared at each other – me in confusion, her in fear. But why would she be afraid of me?

"Gin – no," she said, her hands shaking as they connected with my shoulders, pushing me away. She sat up quickly and those same hands buried themselves in her hair.

"Hermione," I tried. My hand reached for her, but she brushed it away like it was nothing. I pulled it back, stung.

When she spoke, her voice was shaky and threatening tears. I could see them sparkling on her eyelashes, though her eyes were shut. "You're only doing this because everybody knows already," she whispered.

"No!" I began to protest. She cut me off.

"You're only doing this," she said, louder, "because Harry broke up with you."

"Hermione, please -"

"Ginny." She finally looked at me. Her face was close to crumbling. I bit my lip and repressed the urge to comfort her, knowing that that wasn't what she wanted from me. "I don't want to be your last resort. But that's what you're making me out to be. I can't do this with you."

Was that silence in ribcage the sound of my heart breaking?

I shook my head, reached for her again. "No, you're not," I said weakly.

She wasn't looking at me anymore. I watched the tears slip down her face like silent accusations. "Please, just go, Gin."

"Hermione…" How many times did I say her name like a prayer? How many times did I ask for her forgiveness?

"Just go." Her whisper was full of finality. Her heart had been thoroughly broken into, robbed, and left alone again.

I did this to her.

With slow, light movements, I pushed myself off the bed and walked to the door. When I turned to look at her one last time, she looked frozen in her pain; fragile. And though all I wanted to do was go back to her and kiss away her tears, I knew that that wasn't what she wanted.

The door shut behind me and that was the end of it. An anti-climatic closing to the best I've ever had.


End file.
